strategy for murder
by Saifa aon
Summary: Treachery is high in the new fort, murders are being planned, possessions being stolen. One group is capable of this. But who? Rated T to be safe. Please R&R. I do not own any characters, worlds or plots from LOTR.
1. Chapter 1

They were still moving through the night. They're quarry becoming ever more illusive with every passing minute, and with every passing minute they were finding themselves ever more lost. They were in a wilderness of trees, tall oaks tightly packed together with no road in sight, yet Pyrocen was sure there was a small dust track that led from a small village, the same village they had passed, the one that was now a smouldering mass of wood and flesh. "All those broken little bodies" Caldir had said morosely when they passed through the village. They had been tracking a group of orcs for the past few days. The team had been attacked during the night when they were on patrol. Pyrocen, Caldir, Hasan and about ten soldiers from the sealgair battalion in the light troops had set up camp for the night and were unsuspecting victims to a night attack. The orcs outnumbered them four to one, they had killed the soldiers, but the three captains had held them off, killing at least fifteen between them, and now they tracked them, hoping to finish them off. It was that same band of orcs that had attacked this village and left it burning. "All those broken little bodies" Caldir said again, remembering the ghastly sight of the slashed and scorched bodies of children.

"We're lost" Hasan said, in a disheartened tone. Pyrocen just growled in reply, he knew he was lost, he knew he shouldn't have pursued the orcs, but pride and anger urged him on, and he was too proud to now confess his faults.

"We've lost them, there's now way we are going to find them now" Hasan corrected himself, this time Caldir growled in reply. He tried again.

"They're gone Pyrocen, lets just go back"

Then there was a flurry of roars as the orcs attacked.

They came from in between the trees in all directions, hoping to catch the three men off guard. They came at them, charging, twirling they're falchions above they're helmeted heads, shrieking like banshees. They smelled victory and were racing towards it. There was only one problem, Pyrocen knew they were there, so did Caldir, they could smell them, but Hasan was too busy worrying that they had lost them to notice that a different, strange smell had appeared, he didn't realise that Pyrocen had drawn about an inch of steel from his scabbard, that the growls from the two men were meant to hush him because they had heard something, and when the orcs attacked Pyrocen turned with a sudden speed, his scimitar rasping from the throat of his scabbard. He slashed in a wild hay making blow, checking the charge of three orcs and giving him enough time to recover his poise. He sidestepped a lunge from an orcs falchion and replied with a singing backswing to the head. Two more orcs came straight towards him, slashing. He parried one swing, dodged another, kicked the second orc in the knee and followed through with a finishing blow to the chest, stabbing down with enough force to break the ribs. He heard the first orc coming at him, he twisted to the right just in time to see the falchion scythe past him, then, before the orc had time to withdraw its sword, Pyrocen drew his knife and slashed it across the orcs throat. Caldir was fighting the orcs off easily, when they first attacked he stabbed his halberd into the ground and threw his javelins with such force that two orcs were skewered so half the shaft of the javelin protruded from the backs of them. He then retrieved his halberd and charged to meet the orcs with the tip. He stabbed one, and then slashed to the left so that the axe blade sliced into the neck of another; he then parried a swing that was intended to sever his arm, and stabbed forward in a short, powerful and professional thrust. Two orcs charged at him at the same time, hoping to put this gigantic man down, but he parried the attacks effortlessly, smiling sadistically, remembering the old phrase "the point beats the edge". He stabbed one in the throat and was replied with a gurgling noise, he slashed the other orc with the spiked side of the halberd, skewering it into its arm, knocking the orc off balance, and then he stabbed forward, killing the injured orc instantly, piercing its abdomen. He felt it jar on the orcs ribs; he tried twisting to stop the flesh gripping it but it wouldn't come free. He cursed, he knew didn't have time to retrieve it now, he saw there were three orcs coming at him, he drew his broadsword, hacking with it in a swing as wild as it was deadly, thirty-four inches of heavy, single-edged, newly sharpened steel sliced across the chest of the forward-most, opening it to reveal the bone. The other two, seeing their companion go down charged in a rage-hazed frenzy, which Caldir avoided easily, skipping back. He slammed the hilt of his sword in an orcs face sending it reeling back, he was about to finish it off with a hammering blow to the head with his sword blade when an arrow flew past him into the left eye of the orc he hit, snapping its head back in a flurry of blood. He was shocked by the sudden killing of the orc, not that he was taken aback by it; he was more shocked that someone dared rid him of a kill. He took his frustration out on the other orc. He hammered the blade down on the top of its head, immediately killing it, though he was unsatisfied so he severed its head with a swing that sang through the air. Hasan wasn't getting much action, he was taken aback at the fact that their prey had turned it round so that they were the predators, again. He was stood there, his short sword drawn waiting for an orc to come close, the only problem was, none were, Caldir and Pyrocen were killing them all! Three orcs had got through the barrier of the two soldiers and came at Hasan who had killed them with fast skilled slashes, then no more came at him, he saw Pyrocen was fighting easily, every swing rendered an orc dead or injured, while Caldir was faced with three orcs, he saw them lunging, and saw too that Caldir seemed to be struggling. He watched as Caldir killed one of them, then he took his short bow from the sheath on the side of his quiver and drew an arrow. He notched the arrow on the string and pulled it back until it was taut and aimed at the chest of the orc nearest to Caldir, released it and saw that when he let go he slightly raised his bow so that the arrow took the orc in the eye. He swore, he could never get his arrow tip in the exact place he aimed it. He was looking for more orcs to shoot into, he had instinctively drawn another arrow and notched it on the string, and now he was looking for another target. He turned and saw that most of the orcs were dead. There was a mass of orcs in front of Pyrocen, he shot his arrow into the crowd then drew his short sword, bow still in hand and ran forwards.

"Leave some for me!" He shouted at the top of his voice then charged forward to fight alongside his cousin.

"What have you been doing?" Pyrocen asked in between breaths, looking at Hasans blade that only had a bit of blood on it.

"I've been fighting" he said defensively.

"What? Your shadow?" he asked after he parried a thrust from an orc

"No, just you and Caldir have been killing most of them" he retorted in mild reproof.

Hasan was now fighting steadily; showing his skill with his sword, making every swing look easy, and every parry and riposte look effortless. They were only faced with a half-dozen orcs now, which they cut down easily. Then they heard a scream behind them, it was more of a furious, blood curdling scream rather than a scream of terror or pain, but it still made the two cousins whip round. Pyrocen saw that Caldir was unhurt, but the orcs in front of him were startled and started edging back, fear on their faces from the massive noise which erupted from the man that towered over them. Caldir charged into them shoulder barging the orc directly in front of him to the ground, then slashed side to side with his sword killing two more orcs. Pyrocen and Hasan loosed a couple of arrows into the orcs, who had evidently had enough because they turned and fled. They had attacked with twenty five, but by the end of the fight, there was fewer than five. The three watched the orcs retreat. They didn't pursue them any longer they had done what they wanted, though Pyrocen shot one last arrow at the retreating orcs, bringing one down with an arrow in its back. After the orcs were out of sight they collected some firewood and lit a steady fire, when it was ablaze they cleaned their weapons, letting their rage and tempers die down, before settling down for the night.

The fort was a mess, the walls had decayed and large sections of it were missing. The northern gates were nonexistent and the southern gates were battered and splintered. There were no more defences and the houses were destroyed. The fort of Minoas in the south of Gondor had been a deserted city, built in between two cliffs. The citizens had long since fled to Minas Tirith and the soldiers with them. But Ecthelion had ordered them back again. The last thing he had wanted was the soldiers of Rhun and the Haradrim to attack him from the south. He had known the state of the fort but it would have had to do, as he didn't have the time or the patience to deal with repairs. As long as it was serviceable that was all that mattered. Then he had turned up. He had come from the north and was followed by nearly nine thousand weary soldiers, and behind them, twice the number of weary families. Carpenters, masons, blacksmiths, surgeons, masters-at-arms, siege operators, and their wives and children had all followed the strange army who had came to take refuge among the people of Gondor and offer their services where they were required. Ecthelion had been wary of these new soldiers, but he was calmed when the leader identified himself as Pallocen, king of Beadosveld. Ecthelion had heard of Beadosveld, in fact most people in Middle-Earth had heard of that city, the reputation was phenomenal. Beadosveld was a renowned city in the small realm of Härdor. Its fighting skill had reverberated around Middle-Earth. They had been attacked for years and every year they had held off the onslaughts. Their archers were the main body of the army; they were Pallocens pride and joy and had trained his archers to the highest levels a Man could train to. And now that same king had arrived at Minas Tirith, looking for residence. That had been forty years ago, but he still remembered how Ecthelion had wanted to know everything that had happened in the great battle before his cities walls, and had sent him to the ruins of the fort called Minoas, where, once Ecthelion had left him, he spun into a rage about having to live in and protect a fort that was down in the dumps, a fort that all the men in Gondor couldn't protect. It was a shambles, but over forty years Pyrocen had rebuilt the fort and brought it to a new strength. The walls were rebuilt twice as high and twice as thick with flat bastions all along the wall. The city was prone to rockslides and over the years boulders of all sizes had fallen, which the Beadosvelian stonemasons had shaped and mortared into place. He had made his new home nearly as strong as his last. It was a concentric castle; the outer curtain walls protected the citadel which in turn protected the keep and the city hall. New gates were created, twice as thick and twice as heavy as the last, studded to make them stronger against ram battering rams. Trebuchets were constructed. Ballistae created and wall towers and bastions erected. The fort was rebuilt and looked stronger and better than ever. The homes were recreated, farms ploughed behind the fortress and soon the city finally looked like a city and not ruins. That was when Pallocen was still alive, he had died through the night, he had been ill for many years, and the wounds he had taken from the battle in Härdor hadn't helped. His son still didn't know. He was out on patrol with some soldiers from the sealgair battalion the night he died and he hadn't been back since. And just then the citadel gates opened.

The three captains had camped for the night exhausted from the skirmish between the orcs. Most of their food had been destroyed when the orcs attacked them, but what they had left they rationed. Pyrocen decided there was enough food for two days, though he hoped to be home by tomorrow night. They had settled down by the fire while Caldir was cooking three steaks of fresh venison taken down by one of Pyrocens expertly shot arrows. Though there was a slight cold breeze blowing through the trees, the night was remarkably warm. The stars shone overhead, no clouds in sight, apart from over Mordor and the pillar of smoke that still rose from the village that lay to the east. Pyrocen could see the clear form of Orion in the midnight sky. Well at least he thought it was midnight, it couldn't have been any later, and judging by the position of the moon it wasn't earlier. It was quiet in the forest, and peaceful, more peaceful than it had been in a while, the only noises to be heard were the light hooting of the owls, the rustling of animals travelling through the grass and the steaks sizzling in the pan.

"Caldir, Caldir! The steaks are burning!" Pyrocen shouted, startling the big man out of his reverie.

"Huh? Ah, blasted!" Caldir shouted, turning the steaks over. He was a massive man, seven feet tall with massive muscles and a hard face. Yet he was the most compassionate man Pyrocen had ever known. He was also a remarkable cook, only tonight his thoughts were trapped in one place. And Pyrocen knew where, he would have been thinking of the village and all the dead bodies, women and children alike cut down indiscriminately. Caldir might be a compassionate man, but inside him was a hostility that was rarely hidden, and only showed who he really was to his closest friends like Pyrocen and Hasan whom he had known for nearly sixty years.

"Ah it will have to do, we don't have enough food to pick and choose" Pyrocen said. Hasan looked despairingly down at the burnt and shrivelled meat, he was tempted to leave it, but his hunger took control and he ravaged it leaving the other two in the dust with shock on their faces as their, normally, graceful and pleasant ally had gulped down the steak.

"I thought elves were supposed to be pleasant." Pyrocen asked, galled at the sight.

"Aye, they are, but he's only a half elf, so he's still got our traits." Caldir replied with a smirk. Hasan just looked away, embarrassed.

The next morning they had set off, going the way they came during the night, keeping the smoke in front of them. They had left in silence without anything to eat, they were alert. When they awoke, they were surrounded by a thick fog, which anything could be lurking, waiting for an unsuspecting passer-by. They were travelling for close to half an hour, and their silence was only broken when they emerged out of the forest, the fresh air rushed at them, filling their lungs, glad to be out of the humid and clustered space in the forest. But when they emerged, there was another smell, a sweet smell that stuck in the back of the mouth, lingering in the air. The three men had fought in enough battles to know what that smell was. It was the smell of death. The village was directly in front of them now and to the left of it was Pyrocens renegade dust track he had been following. The village was now a pile of ashes. Blackened wood lay strewn about as if a child had knocked it over in frustration, the reed roofs had been incinerated. And in amidst that wreckage lay charred and blackened bodies, young and old, men, women and children. And every time the three soldiers passed it, they were filled with an uncontrollable and relentless rage.

"Damn those bloody orcs!" Caldir roared, clasping the staff of his halberd ever tighter.

"Calm down Caldir" Hasan tried to soothe him, but to no use; they both knew that trying to calm down Caldir was like trying to stop a raging bull. Pyrocen kept quiet, he felt the same as Caldir, they had all lost someone close when their city had been over run with orcs, and now they are seeking revenge on every orc and other forces sent by Sauron. They passed the village in respectful silence. Hasan was mouthing a prayer for the villagers, while Pyrocen and Caldir were mouthing revenge.


	2. Chapter 2

Andrös breathed a sigh of relief when he saw who it was at the doorway. It was Klümen, second captain of the light brigade, commanded by Hasan, who was also steward. The boots sounded loud on the floor of the citadel, the sound reverberating round about three times before coming back to him. Klümen was approaching his good friend, he had done all he could for the day. He had been ordered troops out to try and find Pyrocen and the others but to no luck. The thirty strong patrol had been out most of the day searching for the group of men. They had discovered the ten dead soldiers from the sealgair battalion, but there was no evidence of the three captains any where near. They had stripped the bodies taking the light armour and the weaponry. Among those dead bodies were at least thirty bodies of orcs. The sealgair battalion was renowned for its fighting skill; they were among the most fearsome soldiers of the Beadosvelian army, armed with the standard issue short sword for the light troops as well as the short bows and velvet quivers which hold at least twenty arrows. They had proved their worth yet again by the look of the area. The patrol of soldiers had returned to the fortress and informed Klümen of the discovered soldiers on the small hill at least half a league to the west of Minoas, who, in turn, had gone to inform Andrös. He was the secondary commander of the light troops and advisor to the now deceased king, and, while the king was away, in command of the city. It was a role he hated, but carried it out to the best of his ability, hoping for the king to return. But, at this point in time that was the last thing he wanted, though he knew it was inevitable. For now he steered his thoughts away from telling Pyrocen that he was now king. He was watching his long time friend approach him down the long corridor.

"Ah my friend, what news do you have to tell me?" Andrös, like Klümen was a genial man, much loved by the men who followed them

"The platoon couldn't find them, sir; they have located the ten dead bodies of the missing soldiers, but no sign of the prince or the others." Klümen tried to sound cheerful, though his despair showed in his eyes, it was inevitable, everyone, including the two men, loved Pyrocen, he was a much better leader than his father, who was a good leader, and he always visited his troops, made them feel as appreciated as much as they were.

"Hmm, lets hope they come back soon" Andrös said, though with no conviction. Klümen understood his lack of enthusiasm, as advisor, it was Andrös" responsibility to tell Pyrocen of his fathers passing. And nobody wanted that duty.

Andrös was still thinking of how he would tell the prince that he was now the king, unaware that the prince was now in the city, and making his way up to the citadel, to see his father.

They had arrived during the morning, weary from their long trek. Pyrocen hadn't realised how far they had travelled in the heat of the moment pursuing the orcs. They had been running, following tracks lightly engraved in the dry and hard soil. He had been planning on arriving home on the night of the morning they had set off. Though it had slowly dawned on them that they had travelled much further than expected, they kept running though without a rest. They had come across some obstacles they had encumbered on their pursuit. They came to the river that was fast flowing and perilous to people who wanted cross without the aid of a ford. Pyrocen had been in no mood to search for the ford they had crossed the night before so Pyrocen tied a vine, that they had coincidentally picked up from the forest, to the fletching of an arrow and shot it across the river into nearby tree, he checked that it was safe, then tied the same vine about his waist and suggested his companions did the same thing. "It makes the crossing safer" he had told them. It had taken longer than expected to cross the river, the rocks on the river bed were slippery and water was waist deep. The current had been powerful, hitting them like an ice cold battering ram and Hasan and Pyrocen had both lost their balance. It had taken nearly two hours to cross the river and by the end of it they were all shivering and soaking through. "Bloody hell, but if I never see a bloody river again it'll be to soon" Caldir had said scornfully in between chattering teeth. They had settled down for a bit, lit a fire and tried to warm up. Pyrocen had been unhappy with the situation, he wanted to keep going. "If we keep going we will warm up" he had repeated, though he was grateful for the warmth of the fire. Once they had warmed up and had something to eat, they doused the flames with water from the river and set off again, keeping a fast pace. They had travelled throughout the night, resting twice, both times for a short amount of time just to regain their breath. It had been dawn when they saw the comforting site of the massive walls of their city. They kept running though this time less urgently, seeing the southern gates steadily growing bigger and the morning light getting brighter, before they got to the gates they had slowed to a walk, and it was late morning when the sentries on the walls saw them coming, recognising the massive form of Caldir and ordered the gates opened. When they entered the city and heard the gates crash closed behind them, their weariness hit them. They ignored the enthusiastic greetings from the citizens and just made their way up to the citadel on the second level. The city of Minoas only had three levels, though the walls made it look much bigger and boasted of the defensive capabilities. Even from a distance the trebuchets were visible. But they were not the only siege devices upon the walls. There were at least three petraries, a fifth of the number of trebuchets; they were taller and more powerful than trebuchets. Among them there was also other the smaller mangonels and ballistae, including the volley machines. Beadosvelds secret weapon. The volley machines had a number of bows numbering anywhere between five and twenty bows in three rows, each row activated by a single lever attached to a crossbar, they were designed to clip on to the arrows nock and be pulled back simultaneously one row at a time, protruding from the crossbar were the bottom halves of any where between five and twenty clamps, the top halves were attached to a thinner dowel steel bar which in turn was attached to the lever at the end of the thicker crossbar, it was these clamps that clipped on to the nocks. To activate the device it was pulled back at the lever end, the smaller lever is then pulled down until it has clamped the nocks firmly, then the whole crossbar is pulled back, the crossbars are placed in iron rimmed holes drilled in the concrete slabs. To secure the crossbars once pulled back, a heavy iron slab attached to the holed concrete is put into place, and then the smaller lever is lifted to release a volley of arrows. One strong man could use it but in battle ten men could operate them. They improved a walls archery capability. They added to the amount of arrows shot from the archers on the walls and in the towers. For every one archer on the wall, five to twenty arrows were loosed from the devices. On ground level, Pyrocen, Hasan and Caldir climbed the steps to the citadel. Climbing to sorrow.

Andrös was laughing with Klümen, they had nothing to do, and they had done their duty. They had sent out a patrol to try and find the three men, but to no luck, they had set guards on the walls, and now they were bored. They had both thought up and rehearsed what they would say to Pyrocen. Though they were thinking they wouldn't see him for a while.

"So that's what we are going to say to Pyrocen?"

"Yes, how hard can it be? He's not like some other men who would slit your throat just for telling them their father was sick!" Klümen laughed, they were in a genial mood, laughing and joking,

"What are we to do, Klümen?" The walls were defended, the food was stocked up, the weapons sharpened and cleaned and oiled. He looked to Klümen, waiting for a response, but he was staring fixedly away towards the citadel gates. Andrös looked to see what had enticed his friend's gaze and nearly screamed in horror when he saw who was entering. Pyrocen had returned.

Andrös was speechless, he didn't know what to say, all the words just vanished in his mind and rolled in to one so that his next words sounded like a mad man, "howa… doa… I... I… You… You, arghh!!"

"What?" Pyrocen asked puzzled, then he looked at the flasks of beer in front of the two men. "How much have you had?"

"What? Oh that, not enough it seems" It was Andrös who replied, Klümen was still staring gormlessly at the three men.

"Ok, you are officially scaring me now, what have I done?"

"N-nothing, j-just nothing" Andrös tried to smile, which appeared more as a grimace

"Your fathers dead!" Klümen finally found his voice, though the wrong words. There was an awkward silence which followed the outburst. Andrös just glared at his companion. Pyrocens smile faded and, as the realisation struck him, was replaced by a look of distraught and anger, which mixed together, his expression was that of terrifying rage. He did nothing, just stood there tears welling in his eyes. Hasan and Caldir were standing there, shock on their faces.

Then it all happened too fast, and Hasan couldn't stop him. Pyrocen charged at the two men letting out a roar of pure hatred, clasping his hands round the two men's throats, their heads smacked together in a sickening crack, before being pushed to the ground. He kicked the table over sending the mugs of ale flying across the room, the liquid spraying out to leave a trail of brown across the floor. Some guardsmen hearing the clash ran into the room where Pyrocen turned on them, kicking one in the crotch, bring him to the ground while he smacked his fist in the face of the other in a spray of blood from his nose, he then kicked him in the abdomen sending him to the floor in a crash of metal and flesh. He fell to his knees and let out a great cry of sorrow before holding his head in his hands. Caldir was the only man who dared venture forward, the others, friends and soldiers alike, just stared aghast at their broken hero. Caldir reached him and led his best friend out of the hall. The hall was massive; it had marble floors and marble, gilded pillars and white walls. There were statues along the edges of the walls, in between the pillars, showing the past garrison commanders of this fort, and right at the end, there was the former king of Beadosveld, Pellodar, Pallocens father. Denethor, now taken command from his father, had liked what he saw, though he didn't approve of the foreign king at top end of the room, or of the strange flags that appeared behind the Gondorian flags. Though one look from the sick, but still powerful king and Boromir's approval had changed his mind. Now the floors were splattered with blood and alcohol, which the caretakers mopped up. The gates were studded and between two great columns that were engraved with two fresh copper faces of two of Gondors rulers, Denethor, to keep him happy although Pallocen and Pyrocen didn't like him and Ecthelion who Pallocen and the rest of the Beadosvelians respected.

Pyrocen was being led out of Caiasgruud, in respect of Beadosvelds Caiasgriine. Tears were pouring down his tanned and handsome face, and, although Caldir was disgusted with this apparent show of "weakness", he understood the reason he was upset. When his father Ailúr had died, he had fought to hide the tears, when he died, Caldir rose from first Captain of the heavy troops to their commander. They were walking down the long path to the gardens of Minoas, a place forbidden by everyone apart from royalty, commanders and their closest friends and people only with the express permission of the person in charge. Caldir had been told by the captain of the guard where the body of Pallocen was and he was now taking Pyrocen there. The body was wrapped from head to toe in a white silk veil his sword clasped in his hands. He looked peaceful, though Pyrocen had known he was ill. He hadn't said as much, but Pyrocen could see in his eyes that he was ill, and pure instinct told him that he was. When he saw the body he calmed down, he sat next to his father in silence, Caldir stood with him until Pyrocen looked at him pointedly. Caldir took the hint and took his leave walking back up to the Citadel where Andrös and Klümen were sat in shock, blood trickling from their scalps. The soldiers were just as shocked, they had never seen their commander like that before, he was a genial, easy-going man who liked troops and never raised a hand to any of them. But the soldiers recognised the anguish he must have been feeling, he would have never struck a soldier if it was any other moment. Andrös and Klümen were not that easy to persuade, they were shocked by the onslaught. "It wasn't our fault!" Andrös protested, "He should never have hit us!"

"He was distraught, he didn't know what he was doing, have you never lost a loved one?" Hasan said, trying to soothe the two men.

"Yes I have"

"So have I" Klümen chimed in.

"Exactly, Lord Pyrocen has lost most of his family and all of his loved ones, except me; I am the only member of his family left" He still spoke soothingly trying to distil the anger and tension within the room.

"He thinks that just because he is royalty he can do what he wants! He needs bringing down a level, He needs teaching on how to control his grief!" The anger was rising dangerously in Andrös.

"Are you the one to teach him?" Caldir growled from the doorway, "Do you want to threaten him again? Go on I dare you. See what happens."

Andrös paled, he could talk down to Hasan he knew, he didn't like confrontation between allies, but Caldir was not a man to get on the wrong side of. Andrös" courage faded as quickly as it had flared; only a fool picked a fight with Caldir, and it was a bigger fool who insulted one of his friends in front of him.

Pyrocen was walking back up to the citadel, he had spoken to a priest in the hour and a half he was down their and agreed that Pallocen should be buried in the gardens of Minoas, in a separate section in honour of Beadosveld. Pellodars tombstone was there, and Pallocen would now be buried there, next to his father. He had calmed down and was walking to find the soldiers he had struck; he found them easy enough next to the statue of Gerlind, one of the Gondorian garrison commanders. They stood to attention when they saw their new king approaching, but Pyrocen waved them down.

"I am deeply sorry for striking you, believe me" he looked solemnly at the soldier he had punched, there was a big black bruise surrounding his nose.

"It's alright sir, we understand, it's the lads up there who don't, sir" they smiled, revealing there was no hard feelings. Pyrocen knew who they meant; they were talking about the advisor and the second captain of the light troops, the men who he had struck first. He tossed the two soldiers a coin each and carried on up the path towards the citadel.


	3. Chapter 3

The orcs were attacking. The tips of spears and the edges of falchions were glinting in the wan light of dusk, breastplates shining dully and everywhere the cheers and roars reverberated to the defenders of the walls. Battering rams were slamming into the gates, vibrating the walls and from overhead, boulders crashed into men and buildings crushing them and sending them cascading to the ground. There were two attacks, one from the north and one from the west. There was nearly twenty thousand orcs engulfing the city. The sky was filled with arrows, arrows flying from the walls and arrows being returned the same way, cries of men and orcs were loud, deafening the defenders, overwhelming the sound of battle. The smell of blood was sickeningly strong in the nostrils, making men vomit. Boulders were slashing into the orc ranks, gigantic bolts skewing them and arrows hurling them back, yet still they came. The rams were still hammering at the heavy gates, dust flowing like a river from the walls with every boulder strike. The trebuchets were being unseated, one by one, and every minute the piles of dead and injured were piling up and the screams becoming louder and louder and the blood was rich and thick on the walls and floors. After successive thumping, the gates gave and swung open, shattering the locking bar and ripping the hinges off the walls. The orcs charged into the city, falchions swirling above their heads, spears down, their newly sharpened points facing forwards to skewer anyone in front of it, there were crossbars on the bottom of the spear heads to stop the bodies of their victims getting stuck on the shafts. The horde of orcs slammed into the men like water crashing onto a rock the falchions rising and falling and the spears jabbing forward. Pyrocen awoke, drenched in sweat, his heart pumping ten to the dozen. Sighing, he got up and walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back. He saw it was still dark, not even sunrise. He opened the window and welcomed the fresh air that gushed on his face, drying it from the sweat. There were tears on his face too, which left him puzzled. Had he been crying? He reckoned he must have been thinking about his wife and sons, his eldest would have been fifty six now, if he had survived, he didn't know if he had the gift of long life like his father. His youngest son would have been forty-two. And his wife would have been long dead from age, but their lives had been cut cruelly short by the orcs that had attacked Beadosveld. He dared not think about them, when he did he was filled by a cold rage putting him in a bad mood. He had never hated anyone as much as he had hated the orcs for taking away his family. His only family left was Hasan, although he was a distant cousin, he was still family. The air was filled with birdsongs and rumblings in the streets below betrayed people were awake and already getting about their daily chores. Today would be a busy day; people were still mourning the death of their king, even the Gondorians within the fort had taken to Pallocen. Pyrocen recognised the grief, he still mourned for his father. So he had ordered a festival on this day in remembrance of the late king, he thought it would help the people overcome his death. In truth Pyrocen was not in the mood for a big, cheery festival, he wanted to be out of the city, he liked exploring, travelling to new places. And most of all he wanted to be away from the grief so that he could grieve on his own. There was always somebody nearby in this city; a pedestrian, a guard, a soldier or a friend, he was never in peace. He felt as though he couldn't breathe with out somebody noticing and though he was grateful for the care and consideration of the people, he needed some space. He looked over the walls, he was looking out of the northern window and in the distance he could see the top of the greatest city in Middle-Earth; Minas Tirith. He had been there a few times in the last month, and though he had been there many times before, he was still galled by the sheer size of the place. He had also travelled to Osgiliath a couple of times during the week, taking his mind from the preparations of the festival and trying to shake the grief from him by keeping himself active. Caldir had gone with him, and they helped the famous Boromir and his brother Faramir with the defence of the fortress. The twice they had been up there during the week were not the only times they had travelled up there, they had been up there many times and had made mutual friendships with the two brothers, noticing the leadership skills in the two men, "you could have Beadosvelian blood" Pyrocen would say, joking, though the two men would normally take it as a compliment. The sky was lightening, changing from a blackish to a dull greyish, there were spires of smoke rising from the chimneys of the houses on the lower levels, and there was a smell of bacon somewhere in the royal household. Time to get dressed, he thought.

Caldir was sat in the inn, drinking ale and eating a breakfast of sausage, egg, bacon, ox-tongue and cow liver with some bread. He was sat on his own facing the door, and every time somebody walked in he sat up expectantly but when he saw it wasn't something that interested him he went back to eating his meal. He had a large plate, the size that would normally be served at a buffet and in front of that plate was a big jug of ale. His plate was piled up with food. For some strange reason he was armed. He had his long broadsword at his hip and propped up on the table leg, reversed, was a large studded mace, the kind that would take a man two hands to use, but he was tall and strong enough to use it easily in one. He was eating quickly, as if he was in a rush, putting another forkful in his mouth before the last had even reached his gut. He finished his plate and pushed out in front of him letting out a great belch that sounded as if a troll had just entered the room. He lifted his ale and at the same time picked up his pipe and he looked at them both, as if thinking which he should have first. Someone walked in to the bar. Caldir looked up, distracted. There was a tall man standing in the doorway, albeit not as tall as Caldir or Pyrocen, but at least six foot. He was wearing a brown Stetson like hat and a brown greatcoat over a white silk shirt, black waist coat and black cotton trousers and Caldir noticed the brown knee high riding boots. At his hip he wore a long double edged sword in a black leather scabbard with silver jewellery at the throat and tip. He looked round and saw the man he wanted. He strode towards Caldir, his strut was apparent, displaying an air of confidence and arrogance. He nodded affably at Caldir and without permission pulled the seat back and sat directly opposite him. They sat in silence. Their eyes were locked, acid green eyes staring intently into fierce blue eyes. The blue eyes won. The newcomer looked away and Caldir sat back triumphantly and, as if in celebration, took a large gulp from his jug sized flask. The newcomer was the first to break the silence.

"How long have you been waiting?" His voice was gravelly.

"Long enough" Caldir replied, His voice betrayed no emotion, "You were supposed to be here half an hour ago" He growled.

"Business, my friend, can take longer than expected. You of all people should know that." Caldir recognised the challenge, but was in no mood to rise to it. His reply was a simple grunt.

"So, down to business." The newcomer said.

"Where is your leader? I asked to speak with the organ grinder, not the monkey." Caldir snarled. The newcomer had been warned of this mans hostility and had been warned to take precautions when approaching this man; he was not an easy man to convince. "Alas, business as usual, he regrets his absence" His voice was calm.

Caldir growled in annoyance "so whom do I have the honour of addressing?" his voice was harsh, not bothering to hide his resentment or sarcasm.

"Names are not important at this point in time. Let's just say my subordinate is pleased that you have decided to do this, it is a fine choice."

Caldir grunted. He looked around as if thinking someone was overhearing. "So when does his majesty want this task carrying out?"

The man ignored the sarcasm "When is he leaving the city? How long for? When my contact has that information, then he will decide where and when."

"I can tell you where and I can tell you how long for."

"Good. Good! So tell me"

"You think I am a fool? What do I get for the information?" Caldirs eyes were burning with a fire like intensity, so much so that his acquaintance almost recoiled from the glare.

The newcomer waved at the bartender, who scuttled over with a pint of ale in a ceramic mug. "You will be paid for your cooperation." He smiled revealing yellow teeth. He saw the sceptical look on Caldirs face. "Yes, you will be paid, once my leader decides if your information was adequate enough."

Caldir believed he was being conned. He had a suspicion that the men he was talking to would take every scrap of information from him, then not give him anything in return. He nodded, drained his mug, then before the man opposite him knew what was happening, he sprang up, his chair falling behind him, his mace swinging with amazing force to fall on the table with a deafening crack, smashing the table in half as if it was made out of cardboard. The man's mug fell on the floor, spilling its contents all over its surface. The other man looked up, anger on his face, alarm in his eyes. The room fell silent, faces staring aghast at the violence that lay before them. The bartender was shocked that one of his tables had been dismantled in such a way.

"I want my money, you sorry son of a bitch! You try to con me and I'll make your life a living hell." He pointed to the wreckage of the table "It'll be your head next time!"

"Easy, easy, I meant no offence, I apologise if you had taken some by my statement." His voice was shaky. Caldir was angered even more by this statement. He started forward.

"Wait! Meet here tomorrow for the exchange! Same time, same place." His fear made him shout the sentence. Caldir checked his charge and lowered his mace.

"Same time, same place? I want to see your master!"

"Erm… Erm… If it can be arranged" he said meekly, his whole air of confidence and arrogance had vanished as surely as the morning mist, like Caldir knew it would.

"No, you pathetic little swine! No master, no deal! You got that you pompous little son of a whore!?"

The other man flinched at the abuse "Y-yes okay sir. It shall be arranged."

"Good, because if it isn't…" He left the statement hanging, signalling down to the table. The other man gulped, nodded and fled for the door. When he had left, Caldir looked around; the customers were still looking, staring with wide eyes and there jaws agape.

"What are you all looking at!?" The anger was massive and dangerous inside him. He stormed out of the tavern, his boot-souls slamming on the floor as he went. He opened the door with such force that the bartender thought it was going to come off its hinges when it cracked against the wall. The deal was set.

There would be a murder.


	4. Chapter 4

Pyrocen was in the training centre practising his sword skills. The sword was ripping through the air. He was lunging, parrying, riposting, scything, hacking and counter-lunging. Every swing was making a hollow, whooshing noise in the air. Hasan walked into the arms room and was watching his cousin practise.

"You're getting better" he said, startling the new king.

"Ha-ha, yeah I've been training hard, there isn't that much to do."

"What about the preparations for the festival tonight?"

"There sorted, I have been working on them all day. There's only the food left to do, and Laman said he would do that." Laman was the head chef in the halls of Minoas.

"Oh well, would you like to spar a bit then?"

"Yeah, I would like that"

Hasan smiled, he walked over to the weapons stand and drew a short sword, testing its blade against his thumb, before turning and walking slowly to the centre of the room where Pyrocen was already in his stance, sweat pouring down his forehead and soaking his shirt. Pyrocen was dreading sparring with his cousin. He had a reputation; Hasan was the best swordsman in Beadosveld. Their swords touched, tip against tip while they were looking into each others eyes, trying to judge which way to go. Pyrocen moved first, he pulled the sword away and swung to the left in a quick, short, professional movement. Hasan was just as quick and parried the swing before returning with a quick riposte, forcing Pyrocen to employ a hasty block. He did it clumsily then steadied himself before replying with a lightning fast thrust to the stomach. Hasan jumped back, blocked the thrust and steadied himself confidently. "You're getting better." Hasan said, taunting him. Pyrocen laughed, but then Hasan came forward again attacking and he realised that he wasn't getting better at all, but Hasan was holding back. Hasan approached quickly, feinted to the left and then swung to the right. Pyrocen realised his mistake and clumsily parried the actual thrust. Hasan didn't stop, he kept coming, forcing Pyrocen to parry and parry again, again and again, until his cousin had beaten through his guard and rested his sword tip on his chest. Pyrocen was breathless, sweat was pouring down his face and his sword-arm was tired and hurting. He had been practising with his sword for over two hours, and at half of that time, a man's arm would have become tired and painful. It was hard work sword fighting. Although his sword was well balanced it was still quite heavy, and he had been going through rigorous training during the day.

"Given up already?" Hasan was on the verge of bouncing off the walls, his adrenaline was up.

"I have been training for nearly two and a half hours now, something like that. You have only been training for fifteen minutes."

Hasan shrugged, he walked over to the stand and drew another short sword from its scabbard. He started swinging the swords, systematically cutting through the air. The swords were moving quickly, becoming one big blur. There were times when Pyrocen thought his cousin would chop his own head off, but he was extremely skilled with a blade. He made it look easy, he kept the blades moving as he twisted under them, blades shining in the torchlight, he sent out attacks from the swing blades, all looked effortless, but all took an enormous amount of energy and skill, the thrusts didn't look powerful, but Pyrocen knew how skilful his cousin was and he could mask the power of each thrust, plus there was the momentum of each swing and combined they could sever a mans neck, through to the spine. Hasan stopped, he was panting, sweat pouring down his cheeks and staining his tunic. He was in a low stance one leg behind the other knees bent outwards one sword forward in the guard while the other was above his head pointing forward. He lowered his guard and let out a great sigh and nodded to Pyrocen. "Now can we spar?"

Pyrocen smiled "Hasan?"

"Yes?"

"Stop showing off"

"Yes, my lord"

"And stop being clever"

"Ok" He laughed, "so what about sparring?"

"Another time, maybe" He smiled and Hasan nodded his approval.

Hasan grunted. It was rare that he got to spar with his cousin, and now it would be rarer. He turned and replaced the swords into the stand and walked out of the arms room. Pyrocen wasn't far behind. He was tired, he hardly slept during the night and he had been keeping himself busy, though now he had exhausted himself. He went to his room for a rest.

The tavern was emptier than the previous day, the customers were loud and happy. There was a singer playing at the back of the tavern, playing the piano and bellowing out a joyful song of home in the north. Some customers were dancing between tables and in front of the singer, but there were two men sat at the back of the room, behind round table drinking ale and sucking on pipes. One of them, was ravenously tearing into a leg of lamb. He was dressed in a brown Stetson-like hat and knee high, brown leather riding boots overlapping brown cotton breeches, a green silk tunic and a brown waistcoat under a brown greatcoat and at his hip hung a long double edge sword and a knife on the back of his belt. His companion looked rich. He was not wearing a hat he had long brown straight hair that was tied back in a pony tail. He was wearing a green velvet coat, a red velour waistcoat, green frilled silk tunic, brown cotton trousers and black boots. He was wearing a sabre at his waist, not a flimsy blade that looked as if it would smash into a thousand shards on impact, but a gorgeous thick Kligenthal blade, its scabbard was composed of steel covered with black leather and with a gilt throat and tip. The swords guard was made of gold and it extended up, wrapped in black lace. The handle was wrapped in black leather with gold lace and the golden pommel was surrounding a ruby. He looked young and arrogant and he was well built. He professed to be a fighter, and he boasted about the fights he has had, though no one has ever seen any proof of it on his face. He was chatting with the man beside him in the brown greatcoat. They both sat up when they saw the giant figure approaching them. The figure sat down in front of them, he was wearing a black cloak with a silver brooch and he was wearing an olive green waistcoat over a mauve tunic, black trousers and black boots. Hanging from his belt was a long bladed heavy, ill balanced broadsword forged especially for him. Caldir glared at the man he recognised from the previous meeting, who averted his gaze, then looked at the new man.

"My lord, this is Edoman, my boss. Sir? This is the Lord Caldir"

"My Lord, I have been waiting to make your acquaintance" Edoman said politely

"Wish I could say the same" Caldir growled, Edoman grimaced at this mans hostility

"This is Eloduun, my associate" He gestured at the man who was sitting next to him, who was pale with fear.

"We have met" Caldir growled in reply.

"So, down to business, I have appointments to attend to, you were late" Edomans tone suddenly changed, he was now harsher, more authoritative. Caldir growled, angered by what he took as a challenge, he opened his mouth to say something, but Edoman put a hand up to check his words, realising he had said the wrong thing to the wrong man.

"You were slightly late today as Eloduun was yesterday. I meant no offence, I merely meant I have only a short time in which to have this meeting" He gave a dazzling smile, one that could have charmed a banana from a monkey. Caldirs mouth was still hanging open from the interruption, he suddenly remembered and hurriedly shut it.

"You want to know when your target is leaving and how long for, am I right?" a nod "He is leaving next Thursday, and he is going west for two weeks, he has made an appointment to see someone in Rohan."

Edoman nodded at the news. "Next Thursday you say? We shall attack on the morning he is leaving, you" he stabbed a finger at Caldir "shall carry it out."

"I was planning to don't worry your little brain"

Edoman smiled at the anger "I hear you threatened my little brother?" He gestured to Eloduun

"What if I did?"

"It was a bad move, nobody threatens my family. If you weren't working for me to get rid of that scum, I would kill you now" His voice was threatening, full of anger and hate and with a massive vehemence in his blue eyes. Caldir met his stare, the intensity in his eyes outmatched that of Edoman, who saw the anger on his face.

"Threaten me again, little man, and I will crush you like a bug, and you can do your own poxy job, and I guarantee you will not get far, you will be cut down before you get to the gates, or I will cut you down myself, if you want a duel I'll give you one." He was speaking quietly, but the anger in his voice was apparent and it made both men recoil.

There was an angry silence that followed, Caldir was drinking out of his mug, the jar size mug, and his eyes never left the two men. Eloduun kept his eyes fixed to a drop of ale on the tabletop, refusing to make eye contact with Caldir, whereas Edoman stared at the behemoth. The atmosphere was so thick that not even a knife could cut through it. The atmosphere was broken when Edoman leaned back in the chair.

"How much do you want for your cooperation?" His voice was civil, hiding the resentment. Caldir made no such effort,

"I don't want your dirt money, I get pleasure from doing a job right, though I will accept fifty gold coins"

"You ask for such a small price, why?"

"I just want to see that bastard dead" he snarled

"As do I, my friend, as do I" The tension had eased off, the anger calmed down and Eloduun breathed a sigh of relief that his master wasn't going to get his head severed by this giant's massive sword. Edoman stretched out his hand and for a minute it seemed as Caldir would not accept it, he just stared at the hand with distaste, until, almost reluctantly, he accepted the hand and shook it. He stood up, drained his mug, belched and walked out of the tavern waving his thanks at the bartender and flicking a coin to him. Edoman sat back smiling, "He's a decent fellow once you get past the hostility" Eloduun just grinned meekly he thought that Caldir was a madman who attacked everyone who didn't do what he wanted, which is probably true, but he is no fool.

"Be warned, brother, Caldir is no fool."

"Yes, I know, I am not trying to con him, do not worry," he smiled his dazzling smile at his brother, "I do not plan on making Caldir my enemy, I have too many enemies and too few allies, besides Caldir will make a good ally, he will come in useful" He smiled and saw his brother relax in his chair. He tapped his leg,

"Come on, we can't sit around, we have more meetings to attend, and more importantly, money to collect." Eloduun smiled and stood, he walked to the door of the tavern followed by his brother and they walked into the sunlight, it was midday now, judging by the position of the sun. He saw his brother had cheered up now, he couldn't not notice how cowed Eloduun was in front of Caldir, he couldn't blame him, he had the same feeling, though he tried his best to hide it, but it still showed itself. He branded people a fool if they were not afraid of Caldir, especially if they did not know him. The only people safe from his wrath, he thought, was his close friends and possibly his family. Edoman looked around and saw his target walking out of the training centre drenched in sweat and heading for the throne room. Edoman smiled a devilish smile before turning to walk in the opposite direction.


	5. Chapter 5

The night was dark, made more so by the thick layer of clouds which barred the small light of the moon and stars. The lack of light made every shadow merge into a continuous blackness, a blackness in which a man could not see fifty paces in front of him, a distance which was made shorter by the fog that had suddenly appeared as if conjured by a wizard to interfere with a night watchers vision. In the centre of the darkness was a lone rider, cloaked and travelling fast on his horse, as if the fiery whip of a balrog was cracking behind him. Pyrocen was travelling with haste. There were a series of rumours travelling round the country, rumours which could spread fear through the minds of the light-hearted and illusions of defeat through the minds of the pessimists, and only the main city could answer and still them. Pyrocen was worried, he was more than worried, he was terrified. A rumour of this scale could bring an already unsteady and untrained army to ruins and cause anarchy and uproar through the ranks. He had been informed of the rumour by Salavich, his good friend and the cavalry commander. He couldn't believe what he was hearing; the sudden prospect of defeat was too hard to bear. He had never lost a battle, and although it was not his battle to win or lose, he still felt the shame and anguish of defeat. He knew he couldn't keep moving in this darkness; he knew this area off by heart, though at night, especially one as dark and gloomy as this, landmarks that a man knew the terrain by disappeared, and other obstacles seemed to appear, distorting a man's sense of direction. Buckled to the side of his saddle were a canvas tent and a sleeping bag. He unrolled it and set it up, moving by touch and memory. After he set up his tent, he suddenly remembered he had a torch in his saddlebag, a wooden stake with canvas wrapped about the end and soaked in pitch. He also remembered he had a tinderbox in his sabre-tache, and he cursed himself for clumsily setting up a tent when he could have put it up in a shorter time with fewer mistakes, if he had remembered them. He suddenly laughed at himself, startling his already nervous horse, and he took his tinderbox from his sabre-tache and opened its lid, striking the flint on the firesteel and watching the sparks rise from it and hit the charcloth. He blew on the material until it grew to a flame, at which point he retrieved his torch and rested it between his legs and, scorching his fingers, he picked up the burning tinder and lit the torch, quickly moving his hand away from the inevitable rush of light and flame. His sight had been distorted by the flash of light, he closed his eyes then opened them, letting his eyes adjust to the new light. It was late, he guessed it was the early hours of the morning, Thursday by his reckoning, and he sat beside the fire of brushwood and dry grass which he had just made from the torch, which was now stuck in the ground, butt first so there were two lights either side of his small camp. He was aware of the noises around him, he knew that at night the sounds were amplified, but he was used to them, after all he was a ranger. He listened to the sounds of the night; the crickets chirping, the sounds of the wings of bats beating against the air, the crackling of the flame and the small pitter-patter of the field mice and squirrels running across the damp ground. Then he heard another noise; footsteps, heading this way. He stood and drew his scimitar, the sword hissing from his scabbard, and he saw Caldir coming towards him, death in his eyes.

The morning was dull and humid, and the streets of Minas Tirith were bustling with people, coming to and from the market, soldiers marching to their posts, relieving the piquet's that were on duty during the night. Pyrocen was travelling from the west, he had changed course to arrive at the city from the south. He was alone, well rested and unharmed, he remembered the nights events, the clashing of steel on steel, the grunts of the two men, enormous strength and skill head to head with speed, agility and enormous skill. Broadsword against scimitar, and he remembered the blood that splashed against his tent, he tried to push it out of his mind but he couldn't. He stopped to gaze at the city, as ever he was galled by the sheer size and beauty from the high walls. The sun was shining through the clouds, spreading a silvery white over the ground, and he could see the light glinting from the armour of the defenders on the walls, a movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention and he looked across and saw a man sitting on a horse also looking at the city, a man dressed in a long grey cloak and grey trousers and on his head rested a tall grey hat. The man was six hundred yards away but he could still see that his face was shadowed by the rim of his hat and hanging from his chin was a long pale grey beard, which to an untrained eye looked white. He looked the very figure of a wizard, and what confirmed his suspicions was not what he was wearing but what he was holding. In his hand, was a tall brown staff, a staff he held with an air of confidence. He felt an elation of joy rise in his gut. He had never seen a wizard before and he wished that he would look over, hoped that this wizard who sat on his horse so gracefully would see him. But it was not to be, the wizard rode on, his horse at the canter, his gaze fixed on the white city in front of him. Pyrocen smiled woefully and rode on himself. He entered through the gates and suddenly felt out of place, felt under-dressed, around him was soldiers resplendent in glistening silver armour, their weapons were honed and sparkling, and he felt as though he should have worn his best clothing in front of these confident soldiers. Pyrocen was dressed in a white silk tunic and leather reinforced black cotton trousers, and he wore a black leather cuirass embossed with the emblem of Beadosveld, two crossed golden bows with a golden arrow in the centre of them. On his arms he wore black leather fingerless gloves and black leather vambraces patterned with a golden vine which constricted an arrow, the emblem of the elite. He wore a black cape clasped with silver edged, black, shining arrow-head shaped brooch and attached to a black crossbelt was a black leather quiver full with arrows. At his side hung his scimitar, sheathed in black leather scabbard with silver at its throat and tip and on his other side hung a long straight bladed knife sheathed in the same style sheath. He was wearing another crossbelt, thinner than the other and on the back of that there was a sheath, inside of which was his prized possession, his trademark. In the sheath was an oak longbow, garnished in black, nearly six foot high. He felt like he was out of place, but some of the soldiers there also felt under-dressed, they saw the quality of his clothes, the quality of his weapons the grace and ease of how he sat on his horse, the apparent air of confidence which rolled off him. Not only did the soldiers feel out of place in front of this man, but they also felt elation at the fact that they were staring at one of the survivors of Beadosveld. Pyrocen dismounted and handed the reins of his bay gelding to servant. He walked up to the throne room, a walk that took him more than twenty minutes, he was greeted by the tower guards, he knew some of the guards and some liked him, he was there a lot, and they recognised him as a soldiers soldier. There was a mutual respect between some of the guardsmen and Pyrocen, they smiled in greeting, "morning, my Lord" one said cheerfully.

"Morning, Arlan" Pyrocen replied

The great doors opened before him, the hinges creaking and squealing, He walked down the hall, he was half-hoping that the wizard he had seen was there, but he wasn't, instead he saw Denethor, and he looked to be in a frightful rage.

"What's this about these rumours?" His voice was acidic, his tone dangerous. Pyrocen stared at a point just above the stewards head, he was biting back his own anger, an anger which had been welling up inside him all day, an anger he hid under a mask of joy. "Well? Do you have any idea what these rumours will do to my army? They'll destroy it! They'll tear it apart!" He spoke as if it was all Pyrocens fault. Pyrocen let the insinuations lie, he glared at the steward's face, there was a hidden warning written within that glare, a warning which told Denethor to choose his next words carefully, but Denethor took no notice. "How did these rumours get here? Was it one of your lot?" The anger was rising dangerously in Pyrocen now and unconsciously he reached for the hilt of his sword. Denethor saw the movement and checked his next sentence, he had only just realised the anger in Pyrocens eyes.

"First, the rumours were started by one of your gallopers coming in from the north," his voice was acidic, made more so by the effort to control his rage, "and second, the rumours must be deemed to be false, if the enemy had it we would surely know by now."

"Not necessarily, it could already be behind their god forsaken walls."  
"True, but I don't think so" The rumours were about the one ring being found by orcs, but the rumours were incessantly changing, one minute they were saying that orcs had found it, then the king of Rohan had found it, then a strange rumour went round, a rumour that said that Isildur had rose from the dead and reclaimed his ring from the bottom of the river of which he was felled. Every one knew that that rumour especially was false, though some still believed it, "if the rumours are true, my lord, then the enemy would be on this city like water falling onto a rock, Sauron would surely attack this city first, so you would know if they had the ring."

Denethor grunted. "So they do not have the ring? It hasn't been found?"

"I don't know if the ring has been found, my lord, all I am saying is if the enemy had the ring, we would know about it" The words may be pleasant but there was an evident dislike between the two men.

"Right, well that's settled then," he looked at Pyrocen with distaste, "Dismissed."

Pyrocen clicked his heels together and turned and walked down the aisle to the door, cursing the steward under his breath. Once he left the throne room he felt like screaming, he nearly did too if it wasn't for guardsman Arlan coming over and talking to him.

"How'd it go m'lord?"

"How do you think? You've left your post Arlan."

"Yes my lord, I'm just going" He left grinning broadly. At which point Pyrocen left to go to Rohan.


	6. Chapter 6

Edoman was waiting, he hated waiting. He was pacing up and down the path, always stopping to look up the road, still no one, still waiting. He drew a heavy sigh and looked at his men, looking at each of the twelve faces, and each man stood to attention when their leader looked at them. They were in a line against a nearby wall, and to a bystander they looked like an execution party. Edoman came to the end of the line and looked at his brother. "I hope, for his sake, that he is coming," he growled to Eloduun, who smiled back sheepishly, "He had better come, I don't have all day, we don't have all day, I'm a busy man!" He was keeping his voice low, though the impatience and irritation showed in his voice.

"I'm sure he will," Eloduun tried to placate his elder brother, "Caldir will be true to his word." Edoman grunted and paced back up the line. He looked again at the faces of his men, he was proud to have them, they were all proud men. They all looked fearsome, their faces were scarred, their bodies hardened by years of fighting. They all looked the very figure of a man who someone would not like to meet on a dark night. He pivoted on his back foot and paced back up the line, one man smiled a toothless grin at his leader when he reached him. "What are you smiling at?"

"Nothin' m'lord, I was just thinking, that's all" He smiled, knowing Edomans next words.

"Well spit it out man!"

He smiled triumphantly "Well sir, you know you know you was saying, sir, how you is a busy man, sir? I was just thinking, sir, so I was, that maybe this man of yours wouldn't come sir, then we can kill whoever it is we have to kill and we won't have to pay up, so we won't" Edoman laughed, then nodded.

"I know that's what you all want, a bigger share am I right?" They cheered.

Eloduun interrupted. "First thing, brother, is no one cheats Caldir, if he finds out that you have gone against him, it'll be us who find ourselves being hunted. And second, you won't have a chance."

"And why's that?" Edoman snarled, anger blazing in his eyes at his younger brothers insolence.

"Because here's the brute now" The men laughed, and Edoman calmed down. He turned and saw that Caldir was in fact approaching, though his arm was bandaged.

Edoman turned back to his men. "Looks like he's been having some fun, lads." Another roar of laughter. Edoman walked forward to intercept the huge man.

"What's happened to you? Had a fight with some drunkards, eh? Arrested some blackguard? You're late, our man might have already left."

Caldir growled at the man. "He hasn't."

"And how do you know?"

"Because he's dead," he raised his voice so every man could hear him, "He changed his plans, he left to go to Minas Tirith during the night, then go to Rohan from there."

"Why would he do that?" a voice murmured from the wall, making Edoman whip round. Caldir looked up at where the men stood.

"Because it would be easier going from Minas Tirith than it would be from here."

Edoman threw him a questioning glance, which Caldir answered. "I followed him last night and when he set up camp, I attacked."

"How can I trust you?" Edoman asked, suspicion showing on his face, the fury was bright in his eyes. Caldir didn't answer; instead he drew a bloodied chain from his waistcoat pocket and tossed it to the shorter man in front of him, who caught it. Edoman looked at the chain, fingered the cross and examined the blood that covered it and some of the chain links. He looked up at Caldir, then back to the chain. Once satisfied, he turned and stalked back to his men.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Caldir growled. Edoman looked back, smirked, then looked to one of his men and nodded. The man walked towards Caldir, moving cautiously and slowly as if fearing the big man would pounce on him. Edoman sensed the fear that was spreading through his men, they were hardly ever afraid, they were among the hardest men he had ever known, yet a look from Caldir made them all shiver and shrink with fear. He could hardly blame them, even he was afraid of Caldir, and he still thought that any man who was not afraid of that muscled giant was a fool. Edoman watched as Caldir was given the ten golden coins, Caldirs reward. An amount that seemed low, but it was the amount Caldir had requested, saying that "seeing the scum dead is a reward enough". Caldir looked up at him, nodded, scowled then turned and pondered off. Once out of earshot, Edoman pounded the wall, kicked it, and then through the chain five feet in front if him on the floor, which he instantly picked up, a look of terror on his face, this chain was beautiful, even smeared with blood. He had been cheated! They had been cheated! How dare they be cheated! It was unthinkable! Inconceivable even! He looked at his men, he saw the anger bright in their eyes. He knew they wanted revenge. But he dare not send them after this man. Caldir was dangerous, much more dangerous than them, but, he was injured. Edoman considered it for a moment, then instantly pushed it out of his mind. He may have been cheated, but the bargain was after all for Caldir to take care of it, he just hoped that he and his men could have a chance to prove their worth to the man they all feared. "No point in that, lads, a bargain's a bargain." They looked at him sullenly, though no man dared contradict their master. The deal was done. Pyrocen was dead.

Pyrocen was in fact alive and well. He was riding his horse, Briosgaid, towards Rohan. He could feel the energy emitting from his gelding, and he was proud of his horse, he had been riding for at least three hours and his horse had been travelling at the gallop. His horse was still travelling at the gallop and he felt as if it could keep travelling all day. It probably could since it was a corn-fed horse. A lot of people thought that his Briosgaid's name was wrong for a war-horse. They, including Caldir, had recommended a more powerful and suitable name like Brùthadair, Casarnach, Curann or even Thur, they all thought that any one of those names would be suitable for a horse, they were all war like. But instead Pyrocen had thought of name that meant Biscuit in their native Gaelic.

"Why Briosgaid? Why Biscuit?" Caldir would ask, "It's hardly suitable for a war-horse now is it?"

"Yeah, considering you horse is called Cath-mheal, very original" Pyrocen would reply, grinning. "Could you not have thought of a better name than Charger?"

"It suits its cause" Caldir would say defensively, before scowling, as always, and stalking off, leaving Pyrocen laughing. The thought of those 'arguments' always amused him. He slowed to a walk, his horse's flanks white with sweat, and he looked up at the setting sun, getting dark, he thought, better set up camp. He dismounted and heard the distinct but faint noise of a stream ahead of him to the north. Leading his horse in the direction he could hear the trickle of the water getting louder. But also he could hear the noise of fighting somewhere to the east. It's none of your concern, he told himself, keep moving Pyrocen it's not your fight. He led his horse to the river, and watched appreciatively as his horse dropped its head and started lapping at the water. After a few minutes he crouched beside it and splashed some on his face, grateful for the coldness of it, some of the water dripped onto his lips and he discovered he was parched so he cupped his hands in the water and drank, before refilling his canteen. The noise of the fighting hadn't died down; in fact it sounded louder and more frantic, swords clashing, and he could hear the distinct noise of a stick swinging through the air, whatever it is it sounds bad, he thought. He was about to dismiss the noise and remount to find clear ground when he heard a woman's scream emerge nearby, the other side of some trees, followed shortly after by a man who came stumbling through and crashing to the floor, he was cut badly to his arms, face and chest and in his hand was a rapier. The woman he had heard also came running through and she crouched beside the injured man, presumably her husband, ignorant to Pyrocens presence. He was only half saddled when the couple's attackers broke through the trees, growling at the two people. They were not what Pyrocen had expected, he expected a group of orcs to come barging through, but instead they were men, men with long, unkempt beards and wickedly curved blades, they laughed at the woman cradling her husband and made mocking noises, they were obviously ignorant to Pyrocens presence too. He was going to leave the situation alone, but now since it had revealed itself to him he couldn't leave, he saw that the fallen man was obviously not a fighter, and if he didn't intervene then the lady he saw before him could get hurt. That thought made him angry, he growled quietly and dismounted. Still no reaction from anyone, he drew an inch of steel from his scabbard and approached silently, he could have finished this already by loosing off a couple of arrows into them, but the thought of a woman in danger made him too angry for that, so he wanted it hand to hand, he was just relishing a fight. He was approaching, yet still none of the people in front of him had noticed. Damn them, he thought, and he whistled the two toned whistle to grab their attention. Finally they had noticed him. Then they did what he expected them to do, he had interrupted their fun, now it was time for him to pay, they charged at him flailing their sabres towards him and he drew his straight sword and parried two attacks.

"Six against one? Hardly fair is it? At least have some reinforcements." He laughed at them, which had the desirable affect, they were outraged by this mans cockiness and they attacked, all at once. Pyrocen skipped back, letting them swing into an empty space, watching them run at him and swing in yet another empty space. He was enjoying himself, these wild men weren't trained in warfare, they were infamous in this area, but not trained and certainly not disciplined, allowing Pyrocen to make them angry above all awareness and letting them tire themselves out. He caught the woman's eye and was momentarily distracted, dazzled by her beauty, leaving him unguarded while the wild men attacked again, he suddenly came back to reality just in time to avoid a severing blow from one of the sabres. He was angry for allowing himself to be distracted, and he vented his anger on the group in front. He charged into them knocking one off balance and nearly severing another mans head with his sword. He kept turning and with amazing speed, drew his knife and plunged it into a mans chest leaving it there, and following through with another blow with the hilt of his sword, before kicking the same man in the crotch, he had put three men down in the space of thirty seconds, yet to him it seemed as if more than a minute had passed. The same sensation had came over him as it always did when he was fighting, time itself seemed to slow down and he saw a blade swinging at him, he knew he had plenty of time before the blade reached him and he saw another blade closer to him stabbing at his stomach. He batted the sword blade aside and hammered his own blade into his opponents head, then parried the other swing meant to sever his head from his shoulders. He stabbed the blade into the other mans stomach, twisting it to stop the flesh from gripping the blade, and that was the fifth man down. The last was just standing, galled at the sight of the seemingly cocksure man's skill with his sword. He ran, not wanting to fight the obvious soldier. Pyrocen was in no mood for mercy, he drew his long bow and an arrow and aimed at the man, who was already thirty yards away, he didn't run through the trees, but instead he ran parallel to them. Pyrocen aimed slightly up towards the sun, took a breath, half let it out and let go of the arrow fletching, He watched it soar in the sky, momentarily lost in the last light of the setting sun, before arcing down and striking the retreating man in the bottom of his neck, killing him before he hit the ground. Pyrocen sighed letting the anger drain out of his system before turning away, he looked across to the woman with a questioning glance, she nodded slightly and smiled, and he winked at her and looked back over his shoulder checking there were no more wild men around. A noise from a bush. Pyrocen whipped round, another arrow notched to the string and he pulled it back, ready to aim at whoever or whatever was in the bush. Silence. Pyrocen shouted and he was rewarded by a whimper, then a girl jumped out of the bush, and Pyrocen instinctively aimed at the movement.

"NO!" The woman screamed, before running and grabbing at him causing him to lose his grip on the arrow fletching. The woman screamed, as did the girl, but luckily the arrow flew over the girls head. Pyrocen breathed out, relieved that the arrow missed, then glared at the woman.

"Sorry," She said meekly, cowering away from the look of anger on the strangers face, "She's my sister" She said it as if it answered everything.

He was still dazzled by her beauty. She had long straight black hair, big brown eyes, a small nose, light red cheeks and a generous mouth which looked as if it smiled a lot. Her pale skin shone in the last light of the day. She was wearing a cream dress which highlighted her slim figure and she wore a green shawl over her shoulders. He suddenly realised he was staring at her and hastily looked away, embarrassed. He was never very good around women. He looked at the young girl, there was no resemblance there, her blonde skin was tied behind her head in a pony tail, her blue eyes shining like sapphires in the light and her pale skin reflected back into his eyes. She could be no more than fourteen, he thought. She was wearing a yellow dress and a white and yellow waistcoat over it. He smiled at her then turned to the man on the floor and crouched next to him. He checked his pulse. It was faint but there was one.

"What were you doing out here?" His anxiety made his voice harsher than he wanted.

"We were travelling" The older woman replied, the younger girl had moved next to her sister now.

"Did you not know of the wild men that lurk around this area?"

"Yes, that's why Romano was armed"

Pyrocen grunted and turned the man over, he grimaced at the wounds.

"Is he going to be alright?" The younger girl asked

"Yes, he will, I'll see to that" though he did not know how.

"Go to the stream and draw some water, there is a canvas bucket on my horse.

She nodded and left. Pyrocen opened the man's waistcoat and tunic and shook his head at the wound. He stood and walked to his horse, passing the woman returning with a canvas bucket full of water, he rummaged through his saddlebag finding what he wanted and returned. He cut some cloth from the roll he took from his saddlebag with his folding knife and began cleaning his chest wounds, the fallen man cried out, but was still blessedly unconscious. God they were deep.

"They need stitching, I think" the young woman said,

"Yes, I don't suppose you have a needle and thread do you?"

"No, sorry, I don't tend to carry them around" she smiled, and Pyrocen thought she looked more beautiful than an angel ever could.

"It just so happens that I have, you never know when they might come in handy, I'm Pyrocen" She smiled.

"I'm Elory, this is Enorine, and this is Romano"

"He's a lucky man" he said, returning from his horse with a needle and a roll of thread.

"What do you mean?" She asked cautiously

Pyrocen didn't reply at first, he was threading the needle, or trying to. Elory saw his struggles sighed and took the needle from him, quickly threading the needle and tying it off, before giving it back with a mocking grin. Pyrocen scowled playfully.

"Your husband, he's a lucky man"

"Oh, he's not my husband, he is my brother" she giggled

"He isn't? Oh right" He felt foolish, he blushed. Elory saw the blush and giggled more. He didn't say anything; instead he spent the next five minutes stitching the wound or Ramones chest. He cut the thread with his folding knife and started unravelling the bandages. He wrapped the wound and then started cleaning the rest of the wounds.

"Put his tunic on but leave his waistcoat" He told Elory.

"Where are you going?" She asked, straightening out the clothing.

"I'm going to scout ahead, we need a place to set up camp, we cannot stay in the open not with wild men around."

"Look for a place to camp?" It was Enorine that spoke.

"Yes, if we set up camp here, then there is less chance of escape, and more places for vengeful wild men to hide, in open ground, there is no where for them to hide and I will see them approaching."

"What do we do if they come when you're scouting?" Elory asked.

"They won't come now, they will be scared and unorganised, if they do come back, it will be at the end of the night."

"But what if they do?"

"Shout me, scream if you have to, I will not be far, you brother's rapier is there if you need it." Elory nodded and Pyrocen left them, arrow notched to the string of his longbow ready to pull back and shoot if need be. It was dark now, what light there was, was from the moon and stars, it was a clear night, but cold. Though it would make it easier to see an approaching figure in this light. He was alert, listening to all of the small noises, listening for the telltale sound of footsteps on the grass. He saw a suitable area to the north. He went forward looking around, making sure there was nobody nearby, he picked a location tested the earth with his boot and shot an arrow into the patch he looked around again and, once satisfied, made his way back to the family. When he arrived back he saw that Elory had replaced Romano's tunic and that the two sisters were sat talking contentedly.

"Did you find somewhere?"

"Yes, just to the north, help me lift him into the saddle." Once Romano was in the saddle, Pyrocen led them to the location he had found, he told Enorine to pick as many sticks as she could for firewood while he led the way, he kept catching glimpses of the young girl skipping ahead, he smiled.

"Is she always this happy?" He asked Elory.

"When she accustoms herself to her surroundings she is, yes" She laughed.

They arrived at the camp site; once again Pyrocen checked his surroundings before using the wood collected by Enorine to start a fire. He collected the tent from his saddle bag, unravelled it and put it up next to the fire, he took the bed sheets and cover and laid them a cross the grass inside the tent. He carried Romano into the tent to keep him warm then went over to the two girls.

"You can sleep in the tent"

"What about you? Where are you going to sleep?"

"I'm not, well I'll try not to anyway, I'll be keeping watch." Enorine didn't need telling twice, she went into the tent and slept, leaving Pyrocen alone with Elory.

"So where are you from?"

"We are from Rohan, but we like to travel around. We live in the Westfold. Where are you from?"

"I'm from Gondor, and it just so happens that I am going to Rohan to speak with Théoden, your king."

"We were actually going to Gondor, we have heard stories about a new fort that has been built there and we were going to visit it. Have you heard about a new fort or are they just rumours?"

"No there is a new fort there, do you like Gondor?"

"Yes, we go to Minas Tirith every year, it's a tradition we have picked up, it marks a celebration. Our father was Gondorian and we travel there for his birthday."

"Do you not live with your father?"

"Our parents are dead, they have been for seven years now, it has been my brother who raised us. He is older than us, four years older than me."

"Oh, I'm sorry, truly." The apology sounded feeble, though he didn't know what to say in those situations. "How old is your brother?"

"He is twenty-one tomorrow"

"He may be awake tomorrow, so you can wish him a happy birthday" he said with a smile.

"Yes," she yawned, showing her white teeth and stretching her back and arms, "well I'm going to bed, do you mind?"

"No, no, you go ahead" he smiled at her, which she returned with her own dazzling smile. She left him. He drank some brandy from his spare canteen, listened to the sounds of the night, to his now unsaddled horse ruffling the grass while it slept, and let the thoughts of the day run through his mind; the ride, the fight and the sight of the woman he had saved, he could see her in his mind. You can't have her, he told himself and took off his weapons and his leather cuirass and vambraces, keeping his sword nearby and loose in its scabbard. He sat on the floor again and rested his head on the wall of the tarpaulin tent and let the thoughts swirl and grow in his mind and he closed his eyes and slept, albeit alert for any noise which may arise that could determine danger or not, though he wished nothing would stir his night. His wish came true and he slept peacefully through the night.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The morning was quiet, the only sound disturbing the air were the songs the birds were chirping. The smell of morning was ripe in the air. Elory took a deep breath and stretched, extending her arms and straining her back, groaning with the tension, the morning was remarkably warm for winter, there was a light breeze just ruffling her hair and she welcomed it. She looked around, something was odd, something was missing, but she couldn't think what. It started annoying her, what was it? Oh well, never mind, it will reveal itself when the time is right. She went to the stream and washed her face, the water was cool, refreshingly so, and she took her dress off and waded into the river, she could feel the pebbles under her feet, they were slimy and smooth, yet they were warm and comfortable to walk on. The water was slow and weak, just brushing past her smooth skin. hardly strong enough to make her lose balance. She waded into the middle of the calm river, which was up to her waist in its deepest part. She felt a fish brush past her foot and she saw a frog whip its tongue out to snatch a fly from the air. Ah, the glory of the countryside, she thought. She heard a noise behind her which made her crouch in the water, she didn't want to turn round.

"Where has Pyrocen gone?" It was her sister.

"I don't know he wasn't here when I got up."

Oh God! That's it! That's what was missing, Pyrocen, he wasn't here when she got up. She couldn't believe that she had so blatantly forgotten about him, what a fool.

"I wonder where he could be" Elory heard the longing in her sisters voice, and she smiled.

"Yes, where has he taken himself to?"

"Breakfast!" a voice boomed out, as if hearing Elory's question, "Who wants breakfast?"

Elory turned round and saw, to her joy, that Pyrocen was returning, two rabbits in his hands each with two arrows skewering them. Then Elory felt ashamed, she had a lover, but she was glad whenever she was around Pyrocen. Perhaps it was because he was their saviour, perhaps it was because if he hadn't intervened when he did, then her brother could be dead, and heaven forbid what the wild men will have done with her and her sister. Yes, that's the reason, she thought, though she knew it was not. She turned round and washed her body in the water, dipping her head underwater to wash it. She heard laughter from behind her, the distinctive giggle from her sister and she was jealous, infuriatingly jealous.

"Elory, do you want some rabbit?"

"Yes, please" She was glad that she was facing away from the bank, the last thing she wanted was for Pyrocen to see her already rosy cheeks even redder. What would Savorin think? What would he think if he saw her now? She had been with him for nearly two years now, but in that time she had hardly seen him, he was a soldier, yet everyone knew he was unpopular, and she knew he wasn't the bravest man, he was highly strung, and at times even she was annoyed by his presence. He was sweet, but in Elory's eyes he had nothing to offer. He did, but he was never brave, never a fighter and she knew if he had been there when they were attacked yesterday, he would have ran, terrified of the wild men with unkempt beards and razor sharp, wicked bladed sabres, yet he had joined the army, perhaps to impress her, she did not know. She loved him once, her parents adored him, but they were dead, and all the love she had for him died with them. But when she looked at Pyrocen, sparks flew, he was every thing she hoped for in a man; handsome, his scars added to the handsomeness of his face, making him look more rugged, brave, charming, and he felt like a man a woman could feel secure with, could feel safe, also there was a toughness and ruthlessness inside him which excited her. The more she thought about him, the more she wanted him, she lusted after him, and she conveniently forgot about her lover and dreamed about what could be, wishing for the water to swallow her up so that she could dream for eternity.

"Elory, breakfasts ready!" Enorine shouted, snapping her out of her reverie. She looked pointedly behind her and cleared her throat.

"Yes, yes I take the hint" Pyrocen laughed and turned away. He heard the sound of water splashing behind him and heard the wet slaps on the hard mud. He waited for what seemed like a long time.

"You can look now."

He turned round and saw Elory dressed in a clean dress, duck-egg blue and cream, her hair lank and wet on her shoulders. But still she looked beautiful. God she looked beautiful, he thought, then again realised he was staring, gazing into her big brown eyes, and she back in his cold blue hard eyes. There was a connection there, a strong attraction and they both looked hastily away, their heads moving as one and he was sure that a smile crossed her face as she looked away. He blushed as did she and there was an awkward silence, in which Enorine looked between the two adults a trace of a smile on her face at the reactions of the two. The silence was broken by a groan from the tent, followed by a croak of pain. Romano was awake.

Grief was ripe in Minoas. Everyone was distraught. Rumours were being spread around the fort, terrible rumours and these rumours were making people depressed. They said that their Lord and King Pyrocen was dead, their captain and hero was no more. Some said he had been murdered, some said he had a heart attack during the night and some said that they had seen him fall off his horse in the early hours of the morning. The once bustling courtyard was now silent, the people half-heartedly walked around the market, not a word uttered. The soldiers especially were miserable. The general of there army was gone, their 'colour' and captain lost and they stood at their posts, their faces miserable and tears welling in their eyes. But of these, none were more miserable than Hasan.

"How can he be dead? How?"

"I don't know." Caldir replied.

"He can't be dead!"

"I know"

"Who would want to kill him? What has he ever done wrong?"

"I don't know"

"You don't know? You don't know!? Is that all you have to say?" Hasans voice was growing loud with anger.

"What do you want me to say? Yes, I know he is dead and I am sorry but I don't have the answers." People in the street were staring now, intrigued by the two commanders words.

"You don't care do you?"

"Of course I bloody care! He was like a brother to me and now he is gone, I can't change the past."

"And he is my cousin! How do you think I feel?"

Caldir stood over Hasan trying to intimidate the smaller man in front, but if Hasan was scared, he didn't show it.

"I know how you feel, I am sorry, truly I am, like I said, he was my best friend, so much so that he was like my brother, now I would be grateful if you lowered your voice." Caldir growled the last line.

"You think I am scared of you?" In truth he was petrified, but his anger was too great in him to show that fear, "listen to me you big, lumbering mass of orc-meat, you do not scare me, I have put down things bigger than you, so growl at me again and I may have another name to add on my list!"

"Are you threatening me, elf-boy? Taigh na galla ort!" Caldir roared reaching for his sword-hilt; Hasan reacted by reaching for his. The rasps of the sword blades leaving their scabbards. Luckily Salavich was walking past and he had overheard the argument between the two men and now he moved between them.

"Calm down, calm down! The last thing these people need on a time like this is their army generals to start fighting, so lower your swords. Now!"

They both grunted and replaced their weapons in their scabbards.

"Good! Now, stop being so pathetic and act like the commanders you are! Do you want your men to witness their generals brawling?"

"I'm sorry" Hasan said, the first to calm down. Caldir also calmed down, in truth they were like brothers too, and they couldn't stay angry with each other.

"Yes, I am sorry too, Hasan, forgive me, I was wrong to shout"

"As was I"

"There that wasn't too hard was it?" Salavich asked, lightening the mood, the three men laughed. The first laughter to echo round the fort for two days. Salavich left. He was on his way to prepare a troop of Dragoons, all of the commanders were trying to keep their soldiers busy and their were rumours of orcs near the city on dead ground to the north, some Lancers and Light Dragoons were out already but they had sent back emissaries saying they needed reinforcements, the wounded had came back to the fort and had been replaced by two battalions of infantry, including the infamous Meatachadh battalion, and now Salavich was taking a troop of Heavy Dragoons with him. Hasan and Caldir were watching the cavalry filing out of the forts Northern gate and returned a wave from Salavich.

"Actually, I need to talk to you." Caldir said quietly, so quietly that Hasan barely heard.

"Okay"

"In private, please. This way, if you don't mind." And Caldir led Hasan past the Palace Guards and into the throne room, where he told him of the plans of the group and about what had happened during the night two days ago and of the plan made by Pyrocen and himself.

Most of the city was distraught, all except for one man. Edoman. Eloduun was laughing at his brother's happiness; Edoman was on the verge of jumping around like a dancer he was that happy. Everything had gone according to plan, and now Eloduun, his brother and followers were rich, richer beyond their wildest dreams. Not only that but they could pay off their debts, especially Eloduun's, who was a renowned gambler. Edoman knew he had killed an innocent man, but it wasn't like he was the one who planned the assassination, he had been paid to have Pyrocen killed. The brilliant Pyrocen had enemies too. Everyone knew that Pellodars arch enemy was Allesicrim, King of Neolsodarn at the far west of Härdor, Beadosveld had always been at war with that city, and it was Allesicrim's grandson, Allenderuum, who had ordered the attack on Pyrocen. There were only a few forts and villages left in Härdor, most of them had been destroyed by the orcs, the surviving ones, including Neolsodarn, had only survived because they were too small for the orcs to bother with or they had made a pact with the dark lord himself. Now the realm of Härdor was an evil place. But that didn't bother Edoman, all he cared about was his brother, money and getting an assigned job done. He didn't care who assigned him the mission, or what that job was, as long as it paid well he didn't care. Now he had been paid almost seventeen thousand golden coins to rid the world of a man he very much respected.

"What do you want to do with all of this money, sir?" One of the men asked eyeing the money greedily.

"We save it."

"Save it?" Another asked disgustedly.

"Yes, we save it; we have money troubles enough as it is," Edoman replied, looking pointedly at Eloduun, "we can spend some, but we need to save some for emergencies."

Edoman gestured and a reluctant Eloduun retrieved a large chest from a separate room and opened it, allowing the men to put the canvas sacks of gold inside, but stopped as Edoman raised his hand.

"That's enough lads, the rest of it is ours lads, let us see, there are 7 sacks, every man gets half a sack, I get a whole sack."

The men grinned, they didn't care that Edoman had more than them, they had more money than they could ever dream of; they had a life's worth here.

Romano was groaning painfully, the wounds in his chest were healing well but they still needed cleaning every day, and one of the gashes had managed to re-open letting fresh blood rush over his chest. Enorine was trying to soothe the half-awake man while Elory was stitching the re-opened wound. Pyrocen looked at the injured Romano, looked at his face. It was pale, he noticed, as if the young mans life had drained away. He was deathly pale, but not only his face caught Pyrocens attention, but his eyes as well. They were faded and unseeing. To a passer-by he would have looked dead, the only thing that betrayed Romano's remaining life was the groans and gurgles that sounded from his throat. Then suddenly, as Elory was finishing the last stitch in Romano's chest, he started convulsing. Enorine skipped back horror on her face as she stared at her fitting brother. Elory stood up and stared aghast at him, Pyrocen ran over.

"Elory! Take Hold of his legs! Enorine! Enorine!" He was on the verge of screaming at the young girl, "Enorine! Soothe him! Calm him down." At that Pyrocen ran out of the tent, returning a half-minute later with another blanket, as the other was covered in blood, and covered Romano. Romano coughed, then jerked and finally stilled. Pyrocen poured a brown liquid down the injured mans throat from a canteen on his belt, and he relaxed. He was asleep. Pyrocen stood smiled at the two girls then walked out of the tent, followed by Elory.

"What was that liquid you just gave to Romano?"

"It was mans medicine." He replied with a grin.

"Mans medicine? What in tarnation is mans medicine?"

Pyrocen didn't reply, instead he smiled at Elory, then tipped the canteen to his lips and drank some of that brown liquid she saw. Then she smelled it, the sweet smell, and she knew instantly what it was.

"Rum? You gave my brother rum?" She was angry.

"Yes, rum is the only thing which soothes the pain, it is what surgeons use. And it is what I shall use to douse your brothers pain."

"It put him to sleep!"

"Yes, it did, it was supposed to, he is now sleeping well and he doesn't feel any pain. And when he wakes up, the pain will be halved because the wound is re-stitched, besides, I plan to keep him asleep until his wound heals enough."

"Why?"

"Because, if we let him wake up now, the chances are he will cry out as he tries to move, and if there are orcs about then they will hear us and attack us, they care not for the wounded and unwounded, the fighting and the placid, they will attack nonetheless and as I well know they travel not in pairs or threesomes, but in force, I can handle a bunch of unruly wild men, but a large force of orcs I cannot handle." He spoke as if to a child, "that is why I shall keep him asleep, for our protection, and when his wounds have healed sufficiently, then he can wake up and we can move from this place."

Elory looked around, her gaze following Pyrocens and she drew her shawl tighter about her.

It was getting dark now. Elory looked at Pyrocen, who had now sat on his haversack and was staring across the field, staring into nothing. She knew he was in his own little world, but she also knew that it was cold, deathly cold, and she walked towards the woods to gather firewood.

She hated walking into woods alone, there had been stories, myths or legends she did not know that spoke of people getting killed at night. She remembered the warning given to her by her nervous lover.

"Do not walk in the woods alone," he said, "because a giant wolf will hunt down who ever wanders into the forests alone at night."

That warning was now ringing in her head, making her afraid, and no matter how hard she tried, she could not shake the thought from her head that at any moment a giant wolf would pounce on her and kill her. Her fear made it seem like everything in the forest moved, sounds were amplified and she imagined she saw things that weren't there, big things that ran through the woods with alarming speed, she heard the owls in the trees, the mice scuttling on the floor, foxes hunting, and her own feet crunching the dry leaves. She felt wood under her feet and she stooped to pick it up. She found four more around the same place. Then she saw another shape moving with lightning speed past her eyes, then again, and her fear overcame her, she thought she heard a growl, and she heard breathes, hard rasping breathes, and she looked around terrified of what she might see. There was nothing there, then she realised it was her who she heard breathing. Come on Elory, calm down your imagining things, she thought. She just reckoned that the growl she heard was just a figment of her imagination, but nevertheless she made her way out of the woods hastily, nearly tripping three times and then she was out, the closeness of the forest gone and with it the fear, she guessed that the large forest dwelling wolves that ate humans didn't leave the forest, then she cursed herself because it was a myth, nothing more. She looked to the small camp and saw that Pyrocen was gone, he had a habit of doing that, one minute he was there, the next he was gone, a habit she found annoying. She placed the wood down in a neat pile and piled some dry grass on top and between the twigs and branches, she looked round and found Pyrocens tinderbox and scraped flint on steel and she watched the sparks fly, lighting up her face and hitting the tinder, eventually a flame appeared, she gently blew on the flame to make it grow higher. Once she was satisfied she lit an end of the dry grass and put on to the bottom of the little structure she made, she blew out the little flame and closed the tinderbox lid and watched as grass caught the flames, suddenly the fire had caught the wood and the crackling was audible, she sat by the fire and warmed her hands, and wondered where Pyrocen had got to. No sooner had she wondered than she saw Pyrocen approaching from the forest, strange she thought as she had already gathered firewood, then she saw he was not carrying firewood, he wasn't carrying anything, he was just walking back to camp. He smiled at her.

"Cold night isn't it?" He said.

"Yes, yes it is. What were you doing in the forest?"

"Huh? Oh, just seeing to some business that's all. Are you hungry?"

She noticed how he had changed the subject, but she just shrugged it off, thinking it was nothing. "No thanks, I'm tired." She stretched and yawned, looking at Pyrocen, who was looking at the forest.

"Goodnight" he said. She frowned.

"Goodnight" with that she got up and walked to the tent. She looked ruefully again at Pyrocen, then stooped under the flap. Pyrocen was still looking at the forest and shook his head, and a large figure at the edge of the forest turned and ran back into the gloom.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Caldir was getting worried. Salavich had returned, injured. And a quarter of his troop was missing. Even the formidable soldiers from the Meatachadh battalion were battered and bruised and cut. Reports were coming in from the returning soldiers that told of a strong force marching east, towards Mordor. Leibhosach, Caldirs second, was also getting worried, which was a rear sight, for both of them, Leibhosach was also a big man, albeit not as big as Caldir, but he was still tall, standing at six feet three inches and an immense strength of his own. It was strange seeing two such men worried. But what worried Caldir was something else. If these soldiers that were pushing back their forces so easily surrounded the fort then Pyrocen couldn't return. He looked at his friend.

"How are your men?"

Leibhosach grimaced, "they are quiet. My lads have never been pushed back like that before."

Caldir could see that his friend was hurt by the confession. "So what are you going to do?" He asked, slyly.

"What am I going to do? I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm taking my lads back with twice the numbers, and I'm going to show those foul bastards how real soldiers fight!" He was getting angry, as well he should be, and all of his men cheered at the exclamation. "Faugh an Beallach!"

"Faugh an Beallach!" the soldiers roared their war-cry in answer to their leader.

Caldir laughed at the enthusiasm of his soldiers.

The Meatachadh battalion had never before been beaten, not like they had on this day anyway, and they wanted revenge, the bloodlust was ripe in them. Caldir couldn't blame them; he once had controlled the Meatachadh battalion. He raised them, trained with them and fought with them and knew well enough that an enemy that faced them was a dead enemy, and one that beat them would be hunted by them. They didn't take defeat lightly; they didn't know the meaning of that word.

Half an hour later the Meatachadh battalion filed out with twice the numbers they first left with, and the energy and anger was rolling off them, enough to make the observers believe that when they returned, they would do so victorious. Hasan came down to the Northern gate and stood by Caldir.

"They are marching to reinforce Mordor; they are the first troops I have seen for a while." He sounded worried too.

Caldir looked at the smaller man. "Sauron is preparing for something, he is still attacking Osgiliath."

"Let us hope that they do not turn their attentions to us."

"Why not? We can face them, we have more than adequate defences, and our archers are some of the best in Gondor. We can defend our keep."

"Yes, but the soldiers fight more eagerly when their King is present, they fight for the king. If the king is not here, then who do they fight for?"

The point was well said, and it made Caldir think. "They fight for their flag, for their country, they fight for the spirit of Beadosveld, and they will fight for the king, whether he is present or not."

"Yes, but when the king is not here they will not fight as well, they all want to prove to Pyrocen that they are the best, that they are worthy of fighting for the spirit of Beadosveld."

Caldir grunted in reply, and conceded the point to Hasan who smiled victoriously. They watched as some of the Basbair battalion filed out. They were the reputed swordsmen of the army; their pride was as big as the Meatachadh battalion. Other soldiers wanted to go out, wanting to prove their might alongside the veterans like the Basbair and Meatachadh battalions. Then a voice shouted from above, from a watchtower on the northern wall.

"They're returning!"

Caldir and Hasan ran up the steps to the wall and climbed the ladder to the watchtower. They could see that the soldiers were indeed returning, and not only that but they could see the battlefield. They could see the bodies strewn all over the field. Leibhosach was the first to return, and he was smiling and so were his troops. But Casabian, commander of the Basbairs, was in a foul mood.

"Ha! Told you we would push them back didn't I?" Leibhosach was grinning gleefully. Caldir laughed.

"And what has eaten your chicken?" Caldir asked Casabian

"Nothing, Lord, just the fact that the minute we arrived there, the rats were retreating!" He looked stricken, and finished his whine with a glare at Leibhosach who just grinned broadly. Hasan and Caldir couldn't help but laugh.

After the gates were closed and the soldiers dismissed, the five commanders left for a tavern, chatting about war and about the battle of the day, about how some of the Meatachadh battalion had broken a force of nearly a thousand men, of how the light and heavy cavalry squadrons had obliterated loose formations in the column and hunted down the fugitives and of how the Basbair battalion didn't have a chance to fight, a fact that still upset Casabian.

The forts dead had been buried, the enemy dead left to rot, and all around men and women were drinking, finally coming to terms with the loss of their king. Though they were still not happy, there was a rise in atmosphere from gloom to slight contentment. Obviously the battle of the day had raised the spirits slightly of the people of Minoas. When they arrived in the tavern they all ordered a pint and some long awaited food.

"Ah, brilliant, I feel like I could devour a boar to myself." Leibhosach said.

"Aye, as could I." Caldir replied then watched the food arrive. Legs of lamb, sprouts, carrots, new potatoes, and parsnips, all cooked to perfection. After the meal they all talked about the week ahead, what they expected to happen and what they hoped would happen. They spoke for the best part of an hour played chess for half an hour then Caldir stood up and raised his glass.

The room went silent.

"Here's to the soldiers of Beadosveld and the integration of them into Gondor, May there be peace between us for many years."

"Hear hear!" the room shouted, followed by the sound of glass tapping glass. Caldir sat down again and finished his ale, the room was happier now, speech was louder and drink flowed faster. Leibhosach and Hasan were engrossed in a conversation about elves. Hasan spoke of his great grandfather, Haravin, a powerful elf mage, and of Elrond, and of the fair lady Galadriel.

Casabian and Salavich were busy talking about the battles to come. Caldir was sitting silently, he wasn't planning on staying there, he had been meaning to travel to Minas Tirith to see Boromir, he had been told that he was leaving to see the Lord Elrond of Rivendell though he did not know why, and he wanted to go and speak with him before he left.

"You are absurdly quiet Caldir, something wrong?" Salavich asked.

"No, no I'm fine, honestly, I was just thinking that's all."

"About what, may I ask?"

"You may, I was just thinking about Boromir, he is leaving for Rivendell."

"Is he now?"

"Aye, I was just thinking I would go and see him, you don't mind do you, if I leave?"

"No, go for it." Salavich smiled as Caldir stood up, and walked to the door. Before he walked out he looked back and raised his hand at the four men left at the table, who all returned his wave, then he was gone into the night, to see a friend before he went on an adventure.

Boromir was sitting in the throne room of Minas Tirith eating a meal of ox-tongue and a variety of vegetables with his brother, Faramir and his father, Denethor. A bard was singing in the corner, singing songs of meadows and fruits and happy times.

"So you leave us tomorrow?"

"Yes, father."

"Well make sure you uphold the name of Gondor, although I know I don't need to worry about you." Denethor said, throwing a scornful look at Faramir, who looked painfully down at his plate. Boromir looked apologetically at his brother.

"Faramir would do just the same as I father." Denethor didn't answer, just grunted in annoyance, Boromir glanced at Faramir with a look that said I tried.

Denethor turned the conversation away to Osgiliath.

"Have there been anymore attacks?" He knew fine well that there hadn't, he was just proving why Boromir should go to Elrond instead of Faramir.

"No father, there have been some orcs around but our archers have dealt with them."

"So Osgiliath is safe again?" Boromir knew where Denethor was going with this conversation and tried to change its context.

"Yes, it is safe; the trip to Rivendell may be dangerous. I was thinking if I should take some guards with me?" Denethor frowned at the swift change of subject.

"You should be alright, you may take a troop out to the edge of Gondor, but from then you're on your own." Boromir nodded acceptance. They finished their meal and listened in relative silence as the bard finished his song. When he had, the servants hastily rushed around the table, collecting the empty plates and used cutlery. Another set of servants filed into the room as the others left, goblets and fine wine kept just for after meals.

The family began talking about what they could do if the war finished, and it was half way through that conversation when the doors were opened letting cold night air into the room, flickering the candles. A tall man was approaching. In fact he was huge, a man that towered over the guards at the doors and was taller even than their spears. He was extremely well built, his arm muscles bulging in his sleeves, as he got closer the family could see the battle scars that ran down his face, the most prominent one which spanned from the top of his right eyebrow to the right hand corner of his mouth. Boromir was smiling brilliantly, Faramir smiling welcomingly, Denethor scowling.

Boromir stood and walked towards the newcomer arms spread, they clasped together, the newcomer dwarfing Boromir. When they broke apart Boromir looked up and spoke to the behemoth like man.

"What brings you here friend?"

"I heard you were travelling to Rivendell, I wanted to see you off." Caldir replied.

"Yes, there is something I need to discuss. I shall tell you over a drink."

"Aye," Caldir replied, "I'm parched."

"Care to join us?" Boromir asked his brother.

"That sounds good, I might just do that."

The three friends left the halls and went to the nearest inn.

At the inn Boromir told him of his day, of the events that had happened since the last time Boromir had visited the week before and in exchange Caldir told of the events that had happened in the southern fort, of the small battle that they had engaged with the soldiers marching towards Mordor. He told them of the planned assassination of Pyrocen, Boromir and Faramir were stunned when they had heard this, they liked Pyrocen. Caldir told of his fake attack on Pyrocen and of the plan he and the said king had concocted to exact revenge on the small band of bounty hunters when Pyrocen returned from Rohan. The conversation was ended with Boromir telling Caldir of the dream he had the other night and the riddle that was given them both in their dream. The same dream that Faramir had seen. And that was the reason why he was going to Rivendell, to seek answers. Caldir looked intrigued by the two same dreams, but also he looked concerned.

"What troubles you?"

"It may be dangerous to Rivendell, do you have an escort?" Boromir smiled at his friends concern.

"My father will allow me to take a troop of cavalry to the edge of Gondor, but that is all."

"Why, surely he will not let one of his sons journey through dangerous territory alone?" Boromir shrugged.

"I guess he is worried about future attacks and doesn't want to lose too many soldiers." Caldir snorted.

"Do you think he really cares about that? He has hardly kept the army in shape. The numbers have dwindled and he hasn't tried to raise them again."

"Yes well, he isn't allowing me to take an escort up there."

"To hell with that Boromir, I'll go with you."

"I don't think that will be necessary, Caldir, I should be alright."

"And what if something happens? What if you ride into an ambush or a horde of orcs find you? You're a good fighter Boromir, but I don't think you can fight against a large number of orcs on your own." Boromir shrugged, but Caldir spoke again, cutting off whatever it was Boromir was going to say.

"And besides, it will be a bit boring going up there all alone." Boromir laughed, and finally agreed to let Caldir accompany him.

"But what about the plan you and Pyrocen have against those assassins?"

"Ah he doesn't need me to take care of them, he has Salavich and one of his best friends and guards Aisadúr. Not forgetting Hasan."

"I don't think Hasan will participate in that." Caldir laughed.

"Ah, Boromir, you really don't know Hasan, he may not like to adventure like me and Pyrocen do, but he does relish a good fight every now and then."

Boromir looked sceptically at his friend but then smiled. He looked at Faramir.

"You are quiet today brother, what's troubling you?"

"I'm just worried brother. I agree with Caldir, what if there is an ambush? What if you do not make it to Rivendell?" Boromir smiled comfortingly.

"Not to worry brother, I shall be fine; orcs do not like to attack during the day."

"Yes but they do at night."

Boromir smiled again.

"I will be fine little brother, and besides I will have Caldir to protect me." He said sarcastically, earning a laugh from his younger brother and a playful scowl from Caldir. After a few more drinks the three of them said goodnight. Boromir and Faramir both retired to their chambers and Caldir stayed in a room at the inn.

"Good morning!" Pyrocen shouted through the tent door, startling the occupants inside. "It looks like it is going to be a wonderful day today!"

Elory grunted and looked up, her hair a mess, Enorine pulled the covers over her head and Romano sat up. Pyrocen smiled gleefully at him.

"How are you?" Romano grunted, partly with pain.

"I'm feeling much better thank you." Elory and Enorine both sat up immediately when they heard his voice the older girl wrapped her arms about him, earning another grunt of pain and she instantly retreated, an apologetic look on her face. Romano smiled and spread his arms slowly, Elory hugged him again only this time more gently and Enorine joined them. Pyrocen smiled and stepped out of the tent to give them room. He started a fire going and soon the smell of bacon was strong on the air. Elory stepped out of the tent, she was grinning much more than usual, she looked much younger than her already young age. Before he had chance to say anything, she wrapped her arms tightly about him.

"He's awake!" she shouted, nearly deafening him.

"I know its excellent news." He replied grinning, rubbing his ear.

"I cannot believe it! I dare not!"

"It is true, he is recovering far faster than I expected."

She looked at him mockingly.

"Our family are fighters, we may not be swordsmen or archers like you, but it is hard to keep us down."

"I can guess."

She scowled then wrapped her arms about him again. Pyrocen was never very good with such closeness ever since the loss of his wife, such familiarity made him wary.

Enorine ran out of the tent, excitement spread all over her face.

"He wants to get up!" she yelled.

Elory chirped and ran back into the tent. Pyrocen smiled, he couldn't believe how fast Romano was recovering, and he reckoned it was a miracle that he hadn't contracted the fever. Moments later Romano stepped out of the tent, he looked frail, so frail that it seemed that just a single gust of wind would topple the young man over, though the stress and pain lines on his face made him look older. Pyrocen stepped closer just in case Romano fell over, Elory and Enorine both had his arms, though Romano was adamant he could walk himself.

"I am alright, I can walk."

"Brother, you have been bed-ridden for almost a week; you are still weak and have not yet recovered. Just because you have some strength today does not mean you are better."

"I know." Said Romano grudgingly,

Although he had been bed-ridden for almost a week, and was still weak he was making fine progress.

Pyrocen stood behind, a hand resting on Romanos back to steady him.

"It's like being a child again." Muttered Romano, though everyone heard him, he was never very good at being subtle.

"Fine we will let you walk on your own if you want, then when you fall you will want our help," Elory said jokingly although Romano sensed the slight seriousness in her voice.

"Fine, fine I apologise." Romano smiled. He winced as pain shot up his chest.

"You are improving, Romano, but before we move anywhere your chest needs to heal more."

Romano looked at the other man, and then nodded his approval at the sense there.

"I hope I am not causing much trouble for you, Pyrocen, I am sure that men like you do not go looking for people in need."

"Yes, I was on my way to Rohan, but Lord Théoden can wait." Pyrocen said with a smile. Then the smile faded.

"Elory get your brother into the tent." His voice had suddenly changed, no longer was it joyful, it was now tense.

Elory looked at him suspiciously.

"Now!" He snapped and she obeyed though not without looking at the cause of Pyrocens alarm. A pack of wargs mounted by orcs were not a hundred yards away. Pyrocen looked behind him. They had still not reached the tent.

"You can not delay, get into the tent, none of you can stand against them, least of all your brother!"

"I can fight, you may be a good fighter but I do not think you can fight them either."

"Elory, listen to me, I can handle this, now get into the tent and stay there!"

She noticed how authoritative his voice was and she guessed he would be a good leader of men, if he wasn't already. Pyrocen scooped up his weapons, buckling his sword belt and fastening his quiver. Picking up his long bow he noticed a warg was looking at him. 'Damn' he thought, the warg growled, bearing its long yellow teeth. Everyone was nervous around wargs, five feet tall at the shoulder and at least ten feet long, not only were they huge, they were brilliant hunters; powerful, intelligent, fast. He knew he had to kill the warg, the rider would normally be crushed by the body of the falling animal, if not then they would not be a high risk.

Pyrocen drew an arrow, notched it on his string and as if sensing his next move, the warg started forward. The orc was taken by surprise, it hadn't even noticed Pyrocen. In fact none of them had, though by now all the wargs had.

The orc was surprised to see a man standing there, it was just about to shout at its comrades when the warg burst into action charging towards Pyrocen.

He was calm, he knew how to deal with cavalry, whether they were of the carnivorous sort or not. He pulled the fletching back and released. The arrow hit the warg in its foreleg bringing it down in a flurry of dust, killing its rider under the weight. That was all Pyrocen needed, the dust acted as a smokescreen, blocking the sight of the enemy, allowing him to get to the forest, where he would be safe.

Elory had never seen a warg before, she had heard of them from travellers, who had told her of the ferociousness of them, but nothing could describe what they actually looked like. They did indeed look ferocious. She saw the front wolf like creature charge at Pyrocen, the speed of it was appalling and she was amazed at how Pyrocen could just stand there so calmly. She admired him for it.

She saw the wolf fall when Pyrocen shot it, saw the dust produced from the falling wolf and saw too that Pyrocen was running towards the forest.

'Why is he doing that?' she thought though when she considered the sense of it she realised that the wolves would not be able to move as fast in the denseness of the forest, therefore losing the advantage. But what she didn't understand was that Pyrocen stopped at the edge of the forest.

"What are you doing?" she said to no one in particular her voice soft.

"Excuse me?" Enorine asked her sister, who had overheard her question and though it was aimed at her.

"Pardon? Oh, nothing, don't worry yourself little sister." She said with a soothing smile.

"Why did we have to get into the tent so fast?" Romano asked painfully.

"There are wargs nearby." Elory said as if it was an everyday thing; she didn't want to alarm her family of the danger by herself being afraid.

"But how does he know that the wargs won't come to the tent?" asked Romano, a look of utter fear passed over Enorine's face.

"That is why Pyrocen is out there, he is distracting them." though she was thinking the same thing, what if they came to the tent, they couldn't fight wargs, Romano wasn't fit enough to fight and she and Enorine definitely didn't know how to wield a sword or bow.

She looked out of the tent again and saw the wargs charging at Pyrocen who again calmly shot another arrow into the attackers. 'You are a fool, Pyrocen', she thought. Then she swore she saw a shape move in the forest, a large figure. Her mind flickered back to the myth of the large wolves that hunted down stray adventurers who walked the woods alone at night.

She dismissed the thought for they only existed at night didn't they, then she told herself that they were not real and the shape at the edge of the forest was just her imagination. The wargs were very close to Pyrocen now. 'Run!' she thought, 'run, you fool!'.

The wargs were barking in anticipation now, eager for a taste of fresh human meat. Elory was scared; Pyrocen seemed to be inviting them to kill him! She saw him speaking. Why was he speaking to himself? She wondered, then she saw the black shape again, followed by a long low growl. That was definitely not her imagination she thought. She looked at the wargs, they had heard it too for they had slowed a little, she wasn't going mad then.

Suddenly a large black wolf burst out of the trees standing between the approaching wolves and Pyrocen. She noticed it was larger than the wargs which checked at the sudden appearance of another wolf, there were three left, against one wolf that was larger than them.

Then another wolf, just as large as the last ran out of the trees, only instead of having all black fur, there were white blotches around its fur and at the tip of its nose. After a small delay the wargs charged forward after being urged by their riders, the new wolves ran to meet them, now unoccupied Pyrocen ran back towards the tent, while Elory watched in awe as the larger wolves used their superior size and evident speed and strength to beat the wargs. Within moments, they were dead, including their riders.

The blotched one ran back into the forest, while the other turned to face Pyrocen and after bowing its head to its obvious master, turned and followed the other.


End file.
